7 A Tale of Lily Evans

Harry’s alarm woke him up at godsawful o’clock, and he yawned as he sat up in bed. Then nerves took over and his sleepiness vanished, burned away by the churn of his gut.

“I will stay with your other hatchling,” Raza announced. “Put me in with his nest.”

Harry slid Raza through Theo’s curtains, smirking at what he’d say when he woke up to a cold reptile in his bed, and changed quickly before jogging out of the dorms.

He and Bletchley met Flint in Snape’s office for breakfast. Harry tried coffee this time, only a little since Flint didn’t want him getting the shakes. The rest of the team trickled in and nibbled on toast and eggs and juice, looking varying degrees of anxious.

They trudged out to the pitch when it was time, changing in relative silence. Harry assembled with the rest, broom slung over his shoulder, as the roar of the crowd slowly built above their heads. He barely heard Flint’s pep talk. The Hufflepuff Seeker, a fifth year named Cedric Diggory, was in his second year on the team and reportedly quite good. Like McLaggen, he was substantially larger than Harry, which meant Harry’s strategy would be more or less the same as in the match with Gryffindor.

Wind buffeted Harry’s robes as he walked out onto the pitch. He had to hang onto it with both hands. The sky was bright and clear overhead, but the air was cold and the gusts strong.

Let’s do this, he thought, staring across the grass at the Hufflepuff team. Harry didn’t have anything against Hufflepuffs in general or these Hufflepuffs in particular, but he was a Slytherin and that meant always, always wanting to win.

Hooch’s whistle blew and all fourteen players kicked off hard. Harry rocketed straight up into the Seeker’s plane, about four or five meters above the usual upper altitude of chaser/beater play. The Hufflepuff Beaters were both big and a bit slow, though, and they had this strategy of diving down through the Chasers and hitting the Bludgers on their way down for more momentum, which meant Harry had to keep an eye on them.

Diggory was cruising mostly in circles. Harry kept half an eye on his motions but stuck to his preferred grid search pattern, zipping back and forth across the pitch at a faster speed than most Seekers preferred. They’d established he had a talent for spotting the snitch even at a higher speed, and modified his strategy to rely on speed to keep his small body clear of Bludgers and the other Seeker.

Of course, he wasn’t immune. A clever two-pronged Bludger slam left Harry with a sore shoulder; he’d had to fly straight into one Bludger to keep the other one from slamming into his head. Derrick and Bole retaliated almost instantly but Harry knew it’d be hard now for him to grab the snitch.

The score rose to eighty-seventy with Slytherin in the lead. Both teams had lots of experienced players and established strategies and Hufflepuff had already creamed Ravenclaw earlier in the year, meaning this game was critical for earning a lead towards the Cup. Harry groaned when Hufflepuff scored and brought the game to a tie.

Flint got it back to a Slytherin lead, but then the Beaters slammed through the Slytherin formations and disrupted them so badly that the Hufflepuffs scored twice. Harry swore so badly that Diggory, drifting just within earshot, looked at him with alarm.

Derrick seemed to take this as a personal affront and abandoned the Bludgers in favor of using her body to block the Hufflepuff Chasers. She took several body checks so hard that Harry winced in uncharacteristic sympathy but it worked, and Slytherin soon reclaimed a narrow twenty-point lead.

A Bludger came rocketing up out of the main play and Harry threw himself into an abrupt movement to avoid it that was more awkward ballet pirouette than any kind of standard quidditch move. His heart nearly stopped when he came out of it and saw the snitch drifting near the Ravenclaw stands, not fifteen meters from Diggory.

Thank Merlin, Diggory hadn’t seen it yet, but it was only a matter of time. He was bigger than Harry and could get a lot more momentum going but he couldn’t accelerate as quickly. Harry did some fast calculations and started angling his search that direction as casually as he could.

Hufflepuff scored, bringing the Slytherin lead down to ten points, and Harry made his move while Diggory was distracted. The spectators roared, and Diggory looked up instantly, spotting Harry and taking off in the direction Harry was going.

Harry leaned down and clenched his hands even harder on his broom, eking out as much speed as he could. Diggory was behind but he’d start to gain soon once their speed topped out. Harry was flat to his broom. Wind tore at his eyes and hair. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his left shoulder as he took all his weight on one arm and stretched the other out—

Diggory slammed into him, and Harry cried out involuntarily as he nearly lost his grip. The older boy was in the lead now, the snitch zipping away from them.

No you don’t! Harry got his broom under control and caught up in a second or two. They weren’t diving so Harry had the advantage when it came to acceleration. He eyed the tail of the other broom and decided to try something he’d only seen in his Seeker playbook. If it didn’t work, he and probably also Diggory would be spending the night in the hospital wing.

With a silent prayer to Merlin, Harry rose slightly and pushed his broom into a dive, aiming straight at Diggory’s head. Blood pounded in his ears. At the very last second, he veered aside, feeling the bristles of Diggory’s broom catch in his hair and robes, and for a heart-stopping moment he thought he’d miscalculated—

But then he was free, twisting aside as the draft of his passage knocked Diggory’s broom’s steering charms out of sync. The broom bucked and stalled and Harry barely dodged as Diggory went into a half-controlled fall, and then he fixed his eyes on the snitch again, took his weight on his injured shoulder a second time, reached—Got it!

A roar went up from the stands as he pulled out of his wild flight, hand thrust into the air. The snitch’s wings fluttered weakly against his fingers and Harry laughed with the sheer delight of hearing all of Slytherin cheering for him.

The team converged on him, shouting hoarsely, and they spiraled down to the pitch in what was for Slytherins an unusually undignified scramble of limbs and brooms and robes. Chants of their names followed the victorious team as they shook hands with the Hufflepuffs—graciously, since the Slytherins restrained themselves from gloating when their opponents were so polite about losing—and trooped back to their locker rooms.

“Party in the common room tonight,” Flint said, hurling his outer robe into the corner. Bletchley and Bole cheered, and Derrick slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders.

“Great catch, kid,” she said with a wild, happy smile.

“No kidding!” Warrington grabbed a tin of broom polish and sat on one of the benches, looking up at them. “I thought you were thestral food for sure when you tried Pinker’s Flyby on him—”

“That was risky,” Flint agreed. “But good job.”

Harry shrugged, grinning and for once not minding the contact between him and Derrick. “Figured I could pull it off, even if he is bigger. And if I couldn’t, well, Pomfrey has patched up worse.”

This got a round of laughter from the team and Harry sat down to clean his broom in high spirits, hardly feeling his shoulder at all.

Of course, that was the precise moment that Snape barged through the door with a scowl, eyes immediately fixing on Harry.

Oh crap, Harry thought.

“Mr. Potter, you are to come with me,” Snape barked.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, because what else could he say?

“I’ll clean your broom,” Derrick said, “go,” and Harry thanked her hurriedly as he hustled out the door. Snape hadn’t even given him a chance to change, so he followed his Head of House back up to the school at a brisk almost-jog with his bright green team robes flapping around his ankles and the padding sticking to him with rapidly drying sweat. He busily tried to turn over why he was being dragged off and couldn’t come up with anything. Harry hadn’t even done anything unusually against the rules lately, which was honestly more anxiety-inducing than if he had. There was no way to brace for impact if you didn’t know where it was going to land.

Within a few moments, it became clear they were heading for the Headmaster’s office. Harry frowned when he realized. “Is… something wrong, sir?” he said hesitantly.

“If you have done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear,” Snape said severely, which seemed like a willfully unhelpful response from a man who knew that all of his Slytherins, more often than not, had done something that was some degree of “wrong” within any given time period. Then Harry saw his eyes flickering towards a portrait of several monks pretending to sleep around a table and a beer keg, and he understood. It figured the paintings would eavesdrop.

“Toffee beans,” Snape barked at the gargoyle, and it nodded curtly before leaping aside. Harry followed Snape up the dramatic spiral staircase and into the Headmaster’s office.

It didn’t appear to have changed a bit since the end of last year. Strange spindly instruments lined various delicate and mismatched tables, and books Harry would kill to get his hands on clustered on the shelves. It would be a brilliantly intriguing space if not for the twinkly-eyed wanker sitting behind the desk.

“Harry, my boy. Do sit down,” he said. “Thank you, Severus, you may go.”

“Actually, sir, I prefer if my Head of House stayed for this conversation,” Harry said as politely as he knew how.

The twinkle intensified. Harry started thinking, for some reason, about the previous evening, sitting on Theo’s bed as they discussed the attack. Frowning, he looked down, focusing on his hands and trying to keep his thoughts on track. It wasn’t like him to be this scatterbrained.

“Of course,” Dumbledore said warmly. “How are you, Harry?”

“It’s Mr. Potter, please, sir,” Harry said, “and I’m well, I suppose.” He tried to give off nervous-schoolboy vibes and was reasonably sure it worked.

Dumbledore’s face got a disapproving expression. “Why, my boy, I was a good friend of your parents! Surely you don’t mind an old family friend using your given name?”

Bizarrely, Harry did suddenly feel like letting him go on like that. Except his deeply ingrained refusal to let people in kicked in, and he frowned a little harder. “With respect, sir, I don’t know you. Maybe if my—guardian introduced us outside of school or something, that would be different, but right now you’re the Headmaster of my school. I mean—Professor Snape is Draco’s godfather, and they only use formal titles and stuff here…”

If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn Snape almost smiled. Dumbledore, on the other hand, looked kind of like he’d just swallowed a lemon, but he rallied. “Well, if you insist, Ha—Mr. Potter.”

“Thank you, sir.” Harry ignored the flash of fury he felt at that obviously deliberate “slip”.

“Do you know why I’ve called you up here?”

Harry let his eyes flick nervously to Snape, and twisted his hands together in his lap. “No, sir. If this is about the homework—I told Professor Vihaan I was sorry and I’d do better…”

“What’s this?” Dumbledore looked to Snape.

“The boy received an unusually low grade of an A on an essay for Charms,” Snape drawled. “As I understand it, Tyrell docked points for the lapse in his record of straight Es and Os in the class.”

“I didn’t get to spend much time on it,” Harry muttered, trying to look guilty. It wasn’t something he felt often and faking guilt was only possible because he’d seen so many other kids get caught breaking the rules. “Quidditch just got so busy…”

“I understand, my boy,” Dumbledore assured him, smiling merrily. “I’m sure Tyrell meant only to push you to your fullest potential.”

Oh, and he definitely didn’t mean to take unfair points from a Slytherin, I guess, Harry thought sourly. Not like the Ravenclaws or Gryffindors lose points when they get Ds on their essays.

“I’ll work harder in the future,” he said.

Dumbledore stroked his beard. “Perhaps second years shouldn’t be playing quidditch… the workload may simply be too much.”

Panic streaked through Harry. Yeah, it was intense, but nothing he couldn’t handle, and he loved quidditch.

Before he could leap to his defense, though, Snape cleared his throat. “If I may, Albus, it will likely do Mr. Potter some good to learn time management at this age. Unless I am very much mistaken, he will be choosing at least either Runes or Arithmancy next year, both time-consuming classes.”

“I’d like to take both,” Harry said, pasting on the closest he could get to a bashful smile. Eager student was a role he’d played for years. “I promise to go to Professor Snape if it gets too much next year, sir, but I really think I can handle it. It’s just that Charms is hard for me and some of the other Muggle-raised—we’re not as comfortable with wands and magic, and I guess the magic-born students get it a little more intuitively.”

Dumbledore frowned. “I’m sure that’s not it, my boy. Every student is a bit better at some branches of magic. If you speak to Professor Vihann, he would be glad to assist you. Or perhaps Miss Granger might be a promising study partner? Her Charms work has always been exemplary.”

“I’ll look into finding a study partner,” Harry said, neatly managing not to commit to studying with Granger—as if—and also to avoid saying that he already had an inter-House study group that met twice a week.

“Excellent, excellent. Well, my boy, I’m afraid I didn’t call you up here because of your Charms work.” The Headmaster suddenly looked very serious, and Harry’s eyes narrowed before he caught himself. “I’m afraid there has been another attack.”

Harry’s surprise was completely real. “There has? What happened, sir?”

Dumbledore’s eyes bored into Harry’s. “Last night, two young Gryffindors were found apparently comatose near the library. Mr. Potter, where were you last night?”

Oh so now you remember to call me Mr. Potter. Figures. “I’m sorry, sir, I was in the dorms studying all evening,” Harry said, truthfully. “I’m afraid I couldn’t have heard or seen anything that might help figure out who attacked them.”

Another ghostly smile flickered across Snape’s face, and a trace of irritation hardened the Headmaster’s brow. Harry knew perfectly well the old man had been implying that Harry had somehow done it, but as he had not in fact attacked anyone (lately, or like that), his alibi was undeniable. He’d gone straight back to the dorms after dinner with Theo and Tracy, worked on his essay for McGonagall with Zabini in the common room, and then retreated to the dorms to talk to Theo about his father’s letter.

Why was he thinking about it all in such detail? Harry looked down at his hands again, focusing his mind back on the present moment.

Dumbledore sat back, looking—disappointed? Did he want Harry to be attacking people? “You’re sure you have nothing to tell me, Harry?”

“Headmaster, I really don’t feel comfortable with you calling me Harry,” he said, shifting in his seat. “But no, sir, I don’t.”

Dumbledore’s disappointed look intensified. Harry supposed if he’d had a normal childhood it might have affected him, this pointed sense of having let down an authority figure. But he hadn’t, and it didn’t, and Dumbledore had to let him go.

***

The next day was a Sunday, and quiet. Somehow the staff had managed to keep the students from hearing about the attack until after the game, but it didn’t take long for the news to spread like wildfire that Ritchie Coote and Eloise Midgen, a third and fourth year, respectively, had been found comatose Friday evening. They were in the hospital wing under Madame Pomfrey’s care (a fact which led to many Slytherins whispering that Dumbledore was trying to cover the whole thing up). Harry couldn’t help but notice that Coote was a muggleborn and Midgen was a halfblood raised by her mother, a Squib. Her only magical relative was her father who had died sometime when Midgen was young. Harry pointed this out to the study group when they met in the library minus the first years.

“It is a bit suspicious,” Zachariah admitted. He had finally, in his usual prickly way, initiated the use of first names with Harry, bringing their whole little gang to a level of familiarity Harry had once upon a time thought he would never maintain with more than maybe two people.

“Could the Chamber of Secrets really be open?” Neville said anxiously.

Theo rolled his eyes. “We’ve already said, it’s not the same as last time. Father said the people were petrified. These attacks aren’t petrifications.”

“Which if anything is worse,” Portia pointed out. “Petrifications are something we understand and can reverse, if nothing else. It takes some serious magic or one of a very short list of creatures to pull that off. From what I’ve heard no one’s got a clue what’s happening now.”

“That is worse,” Neville muttered.

“Cheer up,” Zachariah said, elbowing him. He was surprisingly calm given that one of his friends was lying up in the hospital wing, but Harry supposed Zachariah had the sort of faith in magical healing that only someone who’d grown up around it could have. “You’re fine, and we’ve started traveling in large groups.” He paused. “Also, not to put too fine a point on it, everyone who’s been attacked so far is muggleborn or has no influence in the magical world. You’re an Heir to one of the oldest noble houses. You’re probably fine.”

“That’s the only reason Dumbledore has kept it quiet this long,” Harry said suddenly. “It must be. If a noble was up there, their parents would be raising hell. It’d be all over the Prophet.”

“So it is deliberate.” Zachariah frowned at his parchment like he wasn’t seeing it. “But for what?”

They all sat in mystified silence.

***

“Dueling Club,” Zabini read off the notice board outside the library. “Next Monday for everyone and after that it’s split by age. Run by Flitwick and Vihaan.”

“Bet it’s the hysteria,” Harry said. “They’re trying to make people feel more secure, or something.”

“It won’t work,” Theo said. “I caught Goyle buying some kind of rotting turnip as a talisman.”

They had a good laugh, but when Monday arrived they all trooped into the Great Hall along with, it seemed, the entire student body of Hogwarts. Harry eyed them all and noticed that the Hall was nowhere near full, and resolved to keep looking into finding demographic information.

Flitwick and Vihaan had set up a long raised platform of some kind down the middle of the hall, and all the usual tables were gone. Weasley noticed Harry and his group, and threw an ugly look their way that Harry ignored.

“Welcome, welcome!” Flitwick cried. His voice was a bit squeaky and he looked a lot smaller standing next to Vihaan than he usually did sitting at the staff table. Despite his size, he was energetic, and Harry couldn’t help liking him. Wish we had him instead of Vihaan. “Quite a turnout—I’m very glad to see so many students take up an interest in dueling!”

“For some of you, this will be an opportunity to learn some practical defense spells,” Vihaan said, dry voice carrying. “Others of you may develop an interest in formal dueling. There is the junior European circuit, open for all ages fourteen to nineteen, should those of you in that age wish to pursue competitive dueling.”

Interesting. Harry should think about pursuing that.

“Today we will be learning the Shield Charm, the Disarming Charm, and the Stinging Hex,” Flitwick announced. “All of these spells are essentials in the beginning duelist’s arsenal. The Disarming Charm, cast correctly, will snatch any weapon held by your opponent and—ideally—fling it in your direction so that you may catch it. For those of you familiar with the intent theory, it helps greatly if the caster believes the other is holding a weapon, as opposed to a tool. If I were to cast it at someone at a dinner party, their fork would not fly over and impale me in the eye, unless I for some reason expected them to attack me with it.” This got a round of stifled laughter. “Even the knowledge that someone is holding their wand for the purpose of a cleaning charm rather than to do harm may defeat the spell, if the caster has inadequate mental discipline.”

Intent theory of magic. Harry’s heartbeat accelerated a bit. So there was a name for what he’d intuited about magic since the beginning. How had he never heard of it, after so much time in the magical theory section of the library? The restricted section, maybe? He hadn’t explored much of it, after all…

“We will begin with the Disarming Charm, and then learn how to block it.” Vihaan raised his wand and slashed it through the air. Flaming lines were left behind, showing the wand movement. “Such is the necessary wand motion; the incantation is Expelliarmus. Say it with me.” They all dutifully chorused expelliarmus along with him a few times, producing a dull and uncoordinated rumble. “Very good. If the third years and up could please gather at the far end of the Hall and divide into pairs, Professor Flitwick and I will assist the first and second years, as they have not faced this spell yet in class. The older students will please review it; those of you who have begun silent casting should attempt to do so.”

Which was ridiculous, honestly. Harry had mastered it in the middle of first year and there was nothing remotely Dark or violent about being able to disarm your opponent. It was about the most neutral way to deescalate a fight he could think of, actually, which meant Vihaan should love it, but maybe they just really thought first years couldn’t manage it.

Vihaan and Flitwick moved through the crowd of younger students, dividing them into pairs. When Vihaan got over near Harry, he eyed the group of Slytherins and promptly started pairing them with any Gryffindor within reach. Harry found himself facing Granger and considered his deep and abiding weariness with the tricks Fate liked to play on him.

Theo was facing Runcorn, which would probably not go well for the little lion, while Zabini was paired with Dean Thomas. Thomas was decent both in terms of personality and wand skill as far as Harry knew so hopefully that wouldn’t go too badly, but next to them Seamus Finnegan was facing Parkinson, and Harry definitely did not want to know what Parkinson would do if Finnegan somehow managed to light her hair or clothes on fire. It was only a disarming charm, so there shouldn’t be fire involved, but somehow Finnegan was in the middle of a very large number of magical accidents involving flame of some kind, so who knew.

“On three!” Vihaan called, voice magically amplified. Students settled into a tense silence. Harry eyed Granger, clutching her wand with a half-nervous half-determined expression, and lazily lifted his wand. “One—two—three!”

Chaos erupted. Granger’s expelliarmus tugged Harry’s wand out of his halfhearted grip. It flopped to the floor with a clatter that he couldn’t hear over the shouts around him. Theo had managed to disarm Runcorn, and the Gryffindor was now furiously shouting. Thomas had gotten the better of Zabini, and both of them seemed calm, but behind them Greengrass and one of the Gryffindor girls had clearly not stuck to the Disarming Charm. Greengrass was balanced precariously, clearly having been hit with a leg-locker, but the Gryffindor was on the floor while her legs spasmed involuntarily, and she’d dropped her wand.

Similar disasters seemed to have occurred throughout the younger years. Harry sighed and picked up his wand.

“Don’t you want to try?” Granger demanded, smug.

Harry barely spared her a glance. “I learned it last year.”

She reddened. “Liar! Prove it!”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” he said, already turning away.

“Take that back!” Weasley bellowed, appearing from wherever his little duel had undoubtedly gone terribly. “Expelliarmus!”

Weasley’s spell hit him in the back, and Harry’s wand did a little wiggle but nothing else. He whirled around with a sneer. “Really? That’s the best you can do, Weasley? Pathetic. Expelliarmus duo!”

Both their wands shot out of their hands. Weasley’s soared near enough that Harry could snatch it but Granger’s hit the floor near her feet. Interesting—he hadn’t perceived her as the active threat, and the spell hadn’t affected her nearly as much.

Harry handed Weasley’s back point first in a gross breath of etiquette that the other boy didn’t even seem to recognize.

“What was that spell?” Granger demanded. “I didn’t recognize it, you can’t have learned that in class.”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s cheating!”

Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s hardly cheating to be prepared. Besides, he cursed me in the back, how is that not cheating?”

“Wanker,” Weasley spat.

“Ronald! Language!”

They dissolved into bickering. Harry regretted his life.

Thomas, Parkinson, and Zabini strolled over. “What’s with the drama?” Thomas said. By the way he looked at Granger and Weasley, he didn’t like them much, which was gratifying.

Harry gave a brief rundown. By now Vihaan and Flitwick were moving through the group, undoing hexes and taking points from those who seemed to have escalated their duels out of malice rather than friendly competition. Slytherin lost quite a lot, which, Harry grudgingly admitted, was probably fair. They were a vindictive lot, by and large.

Flitwick got their attention with a few bangs from his wand. “Attention! Those of you who were able to successfully cast the Disarming Charm, well done. If this was your first time learning it, no shame if it didn’t quite work—many people need practice maintaining the necessary mindset!” No wonder the Slytherins got it easily. We’re used to feeling threatened. “And I won’t hear complaints from those of you who know it already. One can never be too familiar with these basic spells.

“We’ll be moving on to the Shield Charm next. It creates a dome of magic roughly filling the caster’s field of vision about ten centimeters in front of your wand-tip. As in the case of the Disarming Charm, mindset matters: you will be more successful if you have been in a situation wherein you feared for your safety or life, or if you are in a threatening situation in the present. Most of you may not have such experience to draw on, so I recommend that you imagine yourself facing a threat of some kind before you try to cast it.

“Spells tend to ricochet unless they hit it almost directly, so be careful using it in enclosed spaces. If enough strength is put into the spell, it can withstand sustained impacts from most known spells of Duelling Classes A through D. Most E and F-class curses and a few healing spells can break a Shield Charm, but none of you will know any of those.” Did Harry imagine it, or did he send a warning look at the older students? “I should note that it is a severe drain on one’s magical core and is best used for a single blocking maneuver to allow you the time to gain a better position. It also does not protect against physical threats.”

“What if we’re fighting a Muggle?” Harry whispered. Zabini and Parkinson looked at him oddly, but Thomas nodded with a considering look.

“This is typically a fourth-year spell, and mastering it is not required until your OWLs, so third years and below, do not feel ashamed if you cannot cast it today. Your cores may well be too undeveloped for such a spell as of yet.” Vihaan’s stern voice was a jarring contrast to the excited and high-pitched tones of Flitwick.

“The wand movement is thus—” Flitwick traced it in the air as Vihaan had done—“and the incantation is protego.”

They went through the routine of practicing the incantation, and then were set to try to cast it on their own, after which Flitwick and Vihaan would invite those who wished to test their shields against spellfire to pair up and trade “only those spells included in your year’s Defense or Charms curriculum or below!” as Vihaan sternly admonished them. Three times.

Harry already knew his shield worked, so he leaned up against the wall and watched his peers. Granger was executing the wand motion with ruthless precision but nothing much was happening and it was clearly driving her spare. He suspected she just didn’t have the experience being threatened.

Theo and, he saw, Portia and Zacharias had all cast it competently, which didn’t surprise Harry at all since he’d taught it to them. Neville was red-faced and struggling. Harry caught his eye and beckoned and Neville over.

“Hey, Harry,” Neville said, red-faced. “I, uh, I’m having trouble…”

“I saw. It’s alright,” Harry assured him, “can I help?”

“S-sure.”

“Okay.” Harry pulled his wand and faced off with Neville. “You’ve had people hex you, right?”

Neville winced. “I…”

“Good.” This clearly caught Neville by surprise, and Harry grinned at him. “See Granger? She’s never been afraid like that, and she can’t convince herself there’s a threat. She’s unimaginative and she doesn’t have the experience. It doesn’t matter if you have a good imagination or not because you do have the experience, as much as that sucks. Look at me. Remember being set upon and hexed in some dark corridor, and pretend I’m cornering you. Taunting you.”

Something began to smolder in Neville’s expression. Harry felt a hard smile tug at his mouth. “Good. Pretend I’m that big ugly kid mocking you, calling you a squib, getting ready to hex you. You’ve been humiliated before and by Merlin’s balls you’re not going to let it happen again. I’m raising my wand—tarantallegra!”

“Protego!” Neville shouted, and a wobbly but determined silvery shield sprung up directly in front of him. Harry’s spell sort of splashed through it, and came out both weaker and deflected almost ninety degrees to the side, where it dissolved harmlessly against the floor.

Neville stared wide-eyed at his wand as the shield winked out of sight. “I—I did it! Blessed Merlin, I did it!”

“Of course you did!” Harry grinned and strode over to clap Neville on the shoulder, feeling more than a little smug about having decided to mold him back in first year. The chubby kid’s potential had been buried so deep even Harry hadn’t been sure it was there, but now—well, now he could see the makings of a powerful wizard, whose loyalty would belong to Harry alone.

He felt no guilt over it. Neville was clearly better off and, in Harry’s opinion, his family were a bunch of stuck-up pureblood assholes who thought throwing a child out a window was an acceptable parenting tactic. There was some real fire in there and Harry would teach Neville to harness it and be the best he could be instead of making him ashamed of who he was.

“Great job, mate!” Theo added, joining them. “You realize most of our year can’t even cast it, right?”

Neville looked around, startled, but it was true. They were still struggling, and the Charms professors and a few upper years had started moving through the younger students, helping them but without a whole lot of success.

“Oh,” he said, blinking. “Well, then. I’d best write home… Mum and Dad and Gran might actually be proud of me!”

And that was one of the saddest things Harry had ever heard. Judging by the look on Theo’s face, he saw it too.

“Neville, we’re proud of you,” Harry said firmly, putting a hand on Neville’s shoulder. This kind of contact was getting easier. He thought of how to put this in Hufflepuff terms. “Because you tried, and you worked at it. They should’ve been proud of you years ago for your sheer stubborn refusal to give up at anything.”

Theo nodded. “That’s the great thing about magic. Practice a spell enough times, and it’s as easy as breathing, whether or not you’re some kind of prodigy.”

He leaned over and shoved at Harry as he said the last bit, and Harry half-smiled. “I’m not a prodigy, Theo. I just love magic.”

“Hey… Potter?”

They looked up, surprised. Thomas stood there, looking extremely uncomfortable. “I, uh, I saw you help Neville and… d’you think you could, you know, explain it to me?”

“Sure,” Harry said, drawing on his ‘helpful fellow student’ mask like the second skin it had become. “Here…”

By the time he’d gotten Thomas to the point of casting a weak protego, Zabini, Parkinson, all five of the orphanage students, and Lovegood were clustered around him listening intently. Flitwick came by and was suitably impressed by their results—Fawley, Grader, Thomas, and Parkinson could all muster a weak shield, and those of Theo, Zachariah, Harry, and Neville were solid. He gave everyone who’d achieved something five points and Harry decided on the spot he quite liked the NEWT Charms professor. If only he could take classes with the man four years early.

Vihaan and Flitwick called everyone back together and announced they’d be teaching the Stinging Hex to the youngest age cohort the next week, since they were out of time, and that the older students could practice it on their own if they didn’t remember it from third year, when it was apparently taught as a way to escape grindylows. Harry waited as his fellow students streamed out of the room, waited until Vihaan had gotten sidetracked talking to a few older Gryffindors, and approached Flitwick.

“Professor Flitwick, sir?”

“Yes! What can I do for you, Mr…?”

“Potter, sir.”

Flitwick squeaked a bit. “Mr. Potter, of course! You know, your mother was going to pursue a Mastery in charms, studying with me—I regret bitterly that she never had the chance, she would have revolutionized the field, but alas. I confess I’ve been greatly looking forward to teaching you, and from what I saw today you inherited her talent!” He winked.

How refreshing—someone who knew him for something other than his fame, and who hadn’t decided who Harry was before ever meeting him. Harry smiled and it was even mostly genuine. “Thank you, sir, but I really think it’s just hard work. I’m Muggle-raised, you see, and magic still seems rather, well…”

“Magical?” Flitwick laughed, and Harry felt himself actually flush a bit as he nodded. How embarrassing. “Your mother said much the same thing. I often think it’s unfair to expect Muggle-raised students to perform on the same level as their peers, seeing as they are unaccustomed to seeing wands around them every day of their lives, but in that you perhaps have an advantage. Magic is a gift, and too few of us forget to treat it as such.”

“Filius, you know that’s not the opinion of the field at present.” Vihaan had evidently heard this and come over, looking disapproving.

Flitwick batted a hand. He was about Harry’s height, and much shorter than Vihaan, but this didn’t seem to dent his confidence in the slightest. Harry was impressed. “Nonsense, Tyrell, those so-called experts will merely say what the Ministry wants them to for fear of losing their experimentation licenses. One of the perks of working here,” he suddenly added to Harry with an enigmatic little smile, “is that I don’t require one of those licenses to do research, and can publish what I please.”

Harry grinned back, but Vihaan, through sheer force of will, managed to stand even straighter. “Filius.”

“Relax, my friend, I speak of nothing he won’t learn in a NEWT Charms course.”

Vihaan frowned. “There’s a reason such concepts are only taught at NEWT level, Filius. I must advise you to speak more carefully.”

“Thank you for your counsel, my friend,” Flitwick said, beaming up at the other professor but somehow also looking him dead in the eye. “Now, Mr. Potter, I assume you came to speak with me for a reason other than listening to two old colleagues bicker?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, shuffling his feet like an awkward preteen. “Only I was thinking about competitive dueling, and I’ve heard you were the undefeated champion years ago, and I was going to ask if you could tell me more about how to get involved in that, but now I… well, no one ever speaks of my mother, sir. Would it… I don’t want to ask too much if you’re busy, teaching NEWTS and all, but—”

“Certainly, Mr. Potter,” Flitwick interrupted with a warm smile. “Come by my office for tea on Thursday? As I recall, the second-year Slytherins have a free afternoon that day.”

Dear Merlin, this man must have a perfect memory—he doesn’t even teach second years, and he’s Ravenclaw’s head of House. “I would appreciate that a lot, sir.”

“Pardon the interruption,” Vihaan said, “but it would really be more appropriate for me to speak with you about professional dueling, Mr. Potter. Professor Flitwick is a NEWT-level professor and you are, at present, my student.”

“Nonsense,” Flitwick said, before Harry could intervene. “I know for a fact you’ve taken on four dueling apprentices already this year, Tyrell, and you didn’t know Lily Evans whatsoever.” His eyes had taken on a flinty look. “Two o’clock Thursday,” he added to Harry firmly, and Harry took the opportunity he’d been handed to hastily disentangle himself from the conversation.

***

On Thursday, Harry woke up feeling unusually out of sorts. He was twitchy and had little appetite at breakfast, and as Crouch lectured on in Defense, he couldn’t concentrate at all.

In frustration, Harry started scribbling out his thoughts instead of taking notes, doing his best to appear to be paying attention. The painfully slow pace of this class made it a good time for a bit of introspection.

A pattern started to emerge, one that shook Harry to his core. He was anxious because, for the first time, he was about to learn something about Lily Evans the person instead of Lily Evans the idol. And if she was real, then maybe she’d be ashamed of him.

No, Harry told himself firmly. I am not about to go feeling guilty because of a parent figure who died when I was a year old. I am not. If she wanted to have an opinion on my life, she shouldn’t have left me.

Somehow this resolution didn’t settle his nerves.

He knocked on Flitwick’s door at the appointed time, and the tiny Professor whipped it open with a broad smile. “Mr. Potter, do come in!”

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry said. Flitwick gestured to one of two squashy chairs in front of a small hearth, and Harry took one, feeling oddly out of place. The office was unusually austere for the wizarding world, with white marble tops to the desk and few tables, and monochrome furniture in shades of gray, white, and dark blue.

“I see you’ve noticed my décor,” Flitwick said with a smile, hopping up onto the other chair. It was normal-sized, but a large pillow and small footstool had been placed so as to allow the short man to sit comfortably. “I confess, it’s a result of having grown up visiting the goblin side of my family. They tend to go for abstract geometrical decorations over the old-world tastes of wixen. I’ve tried to combine the two.”

Harry had to admit, he quite liked the room, but he wasn’t sure which of his several questions he should ask first. He settled on, “Wixen, sir?”

“Oh, it’s an old word for magical humans. Cream or sugar?”

“Bit of cream,” Harry said, accepting the teacup and saucer that floated over to him with a polite smile. “Why don’t we use it anymore?”

“I’m afraid it fell out of favor sometime around the implementation of the Statute of Secrecy.” Flitwick added an unidentified liquid to his tea and shot Harry a piercing look. “I imagine you’d like to inquire as to how I came to have goblin family members?”

“I… well, there are rumors,” Harry said a bit awkwardly. It was common knowledge in the school that the Ravenclaw Head of House was part-goblin, but he didn’t want to offend one of the few professors he’d actually found himself respecting.

Flitwick waved his hand, almost upsetting his teacup. “Most of them false, most likely, but my grandfather is a goblin. He and my grandmother still live among the Gringotts clan. Living among goblins has given me a rather, hmm, unorthodox perspective on modern wixen affairs. The word wixen, for example, is still used among the goblins.” He eyed Harry over the rim of his teacup. “Mr. Potter, you may recall that Professor Vihaan was opposed to me sharing certain information with you.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said uncertainly. He didn’t really want to get dragged into the middle of some game the two of them were playing, but if he could learn something out of it…

“Well, he had a point that many of my opinions do not particularly align with those the Ministry deems acceptable. I only still teach here because the Hogwarts Charter prevents them from meddling in staffing decisions and because my contract was negotiated under Headmaster Dippet, who was so desperate to have a Charms Master and dueling champion on staff that he gave me whatever I asked. I also only tell you these things because I believe your mother would have wished for you to at least be exposed to… other views.”

“I’m a Slytherin, sir,” Harry drawled. “Mental flexibility is sort of a necessity.”

Flitwick laughed. “Indeed it is, Mr. Potter, indeed it is. In that, you snakes may well have my eagles beaten, truth be told. The vice of Ravenclaw is having perhaps a bit too much faith in one’s own intellectual superiority. But I digress. You wished to know about your mother?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry’s fingers tightened involuntarily on his teacup. “I… well. I never knew her, and I’ve never heard anything about her other than, apparently, I have her eyes.”

“Let’s see.” Flitwick leaned back, looking thoughtful. “Lily Evans came to this school a bright, clever girl, delighted to find a world that did not look down upon her for her sex at the same time as she was shocked to find it did ostracize her for her parentage. The Muggle world’s long history of sexual discrimination was eradicated among magicals centuries past for the simple reasons that we live long enough for childbearing to have no substantial negative impact on a witch’s career, and because magic negates any difference of physical strength, whereas I understand both issues have contributed to much controversy about equal rights between men and women in the Muggle world. But blood purity was just as entrenched for us as sexism and other prejudices were and are among Muggles.”

Harry nodded. He knew only too well how much Muggles hated things that were different.

Flitwick sipped his tea. “She was nearly a Hatstall, but eventually went to Gryffindor. Later in her Hogwarts career, she confessed to me that it had considered placing her in Slytherin but believed the blood prejudice was so strong that to do so would put the little girl in danger. She was willing to do it anyway just to be in the same House as her childhood friend, and for that reason the Hat offered her Gryffindor .

“I also have faced prejudice from wixen and goblins alike in my time, and I try my best to reach out to muggle-raised students. Lily was not one of my eagles but she was an absolute prodigy at magic in general and Charms in particular, once she overcame the instinctive discomfort many muggle-raised have with wielding magic so casually. I became her unofficial mentor sometime in her third year. Her Head of House was unreceptive to many of Lily’s concerns, and it was an exceptionally difficult time to be a talented, ambitious muggleborn.

“She was kind, but in moderation. Everyone loved her but few were her close confidantes. There was a Slytherin boy in her year with whom she was very close, and another Gryffindor girl, Marlene McKinnon, who passed in the last war. As a student, all her professors adored her; as a friend, she was quick to laugh and quick to scowl, and always ready to defend those she considered true companions. It was my impression that a greater part of her reserve came from blood prejudice, but another influence was her disagreement with her sister. Your aunt, Petunia Evans—have you met?”

The unexpected question knocked Harry out of something of a trance he’d entered without realizing it. He blinked, took a hasty sip of tea, and almost choked on it. Flitwick looked concerned and leaned forward, but Harry waved him off and frantically considered what to say. Then he decided it didn’t matter. Dumbledore already knew he’d grown up in an orphanage, so who cared if the rest of the staff found out? “I lived with her when I was very young, but she… and her husband, they didn’t like magic. I guess it makes sense, looking back, if she and my—if she and Mum didn’t get along, she probably resented having me dumped on her.” The word Mum felt foreign in his mouth.

Flitwick’s expression turned grim. “That would seem likely. I do apologize, Mr. Potter, that I was not able to ensure you were placed with a more… appropriate guardian. I had no legal authority and was not consulted.”

“It’s all right, Professor,” said Harry, even though it definitely wasn’t, generally speaking. Flitwick wasn’t at fault. “It’s done.”

“Yes, well.” Flitwick settled back in his chair again with a sigh. “Petunia wanted to come to Hogwarts, and wasn’t pleased when she was told it would be impossible. I gather things only got worse in Lily’s fifth year, when they discovered Lily was adopted.”

“What?” Harry said, eyes wide.

“Indeed.” Flitwick glanced around. “I had some of her old things lying about, actually, that she’d sent ahead before coming to begin her Mastery studies. She told me not to mail them back, that she would love the excuse to come up to Hogwarts for a cup of tea. Sadly… well.” The little man seemed to be blinking back actual tears. Despite himself, Harry wondered who would cry if he died. Probably no one. The thought kind of amused him, but he guessed he shouldn’t share those particular thoughts. “There might be something on her birth parents among the paperwork in her bags. I’ve never looked through it myself. Her birth parents were both Muggles, she told me that much, but when she looked for them they had both passed away.”

“I had no idea…” Harry said. “I wish I could have known her.”

The wistfulness in his own voice surprised him. Harry hadn’t meant for that to be there. Flitwick nodded, though, like it wasn’t surprising. “I do have happier stories to share, of course. There was a day in her fifth-year Charms class that she managed to turn herself a truly obnoxious shade of lime green that took hours to wear off.” Harry grinned. “And on another occasion, I caught her and her friend brewing potions out of class. I tend not to react when I find such things… as long as the students in question are competent.” He winked. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t, sir,” Harry promised. His stomach was doing some funny squirming thing. His mother had done the same things he did.

Flitwick took another sip of tea, eyes staring into the fire with a faraway look. “She was truly brilliant, and she had so many dreams. I bitterly wish she had been able to realize them…”

“Who was her friend?” Harry asked. Perhaps he could write this person and ask if they had any photographs or stories to share. “Are they still alive?”

Flitwick frowned at his teacup. “Indeed he is, but I do not know if he would wish me to make his identity known. It was a painful time, one which many would rather not relive. I will make inquiries.”

Harry made a noise that could be interpreted as gratitude, if you were charitable. Thoughts whirled around his mind like autumn leaves. “Professor, what did you mean by… my mother would have wanted me to be raised hearing certain things?”

“I’m sure you have… had difficulties in Slytherin regarding your upbringing,” said Flitwick, seeming to choose his words delicately. “Your mother was immensely frustrated with the many barriers that exist to stop those first children blessed with magic in their families from truly joining our culture.”

Nodding fervently, Harry sipped his tea.

“She often spoke of a wish to give her future children the life she wanted to have, immersed in magic and all that it brings. Thinking of magic as a gift, as something sacred, has fallen somewhat out of favor, but it was an idea Lily adopted with alacrity. Far too many today take it for granted that they can bend the universe to their will with what amounts to little more than a stick of wood.” Flitwick tapped his wand where it rested innocently on the arm of his chair.

“Excuse me, sir, but it almost sounds like she… worshipped magic?” Harry said hesitantly. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this. On one hand, his brushes with Muggle religion had sort of turned him off to the whole idea. On the other, if anything was worthy of his worship, magic was certainly it.

Flitwick smiled. “Perceptive. You do seem to have inherited your mother’s mind, Mr. Potter. There is indeed a very old school of thought, which once dominated among wixen, in which magic is sacred. There was never quite so codified a structure as most Muggle religions seem to feature, as I understand them, so I do not know if a Muggle would really consider what we had as a religion. More to the point, Muggles believe in gods they cannot see. We know for a fact that magic exists.”

A short laugh pushed its way out of Harry’s unwilling throat. That had always driven him up the wall when he was forced to go to church. “So… were there… priests, or anything like that?”

“Hmm.” Flitwick twirled a finger and sent his spoon to stirring the teacup on its own, a trick Harry immediately decided he needed to learn. “Not as you might understand it. Would I be wrong to surmise that you attended Muggle church as a child?”

Harry fought back a blush. “No, sir. I didn’t… enjoy it very much.” There. That was a diplomatic way to put it.

“There was no system of people widely believed to have some special knowledge the rest of us could not attain. I do not pretend to be a scholar of history, but I am a Ravenclaw—” Flitwick grinned—“which means I read quite a lot, and not just about Charms. As I understand it, the wixen of old believed that magic was not just some arcane thing we pull out of ourselves, but rather an almost sentient force, one which we gifted few can connect to and use. They believed that we must give back to show respect for what we had been given.”

Harry furrowed his brow. “Why isn’t this taught in History, Professor?”

Flitwick’s laugh was a high squeaky sound. “This is verging on political territory, Mr. Potter, so you’ll have to forgive me for only offering a selection of ideas and letting you choose among them for yourself. Some think that it’s simply wrong to teach something like that in class, where it could be construed as forcing a certain belief on students. Others think that it was abandoned around the time that Muggle society stabilized and our wider beliefs about them began to change. We dropped the term wixen because some began to consider magical humans a higher form of creature—the joining of man and magic—instead of just one of many magical races. We abandoned our beliefs about magic because more and more voices in our world took a dim view of what Muggles would call paganism, and began to absorb Muggle beliefs that placed the world and all the creatures in it under the collective purview of man. Of course, there’s also the view that it’s simply too complicated for schoolchildren to learn, and that you should be introduced only to the broad strokes of history unless you choose to pursue a NEWT in the subject.”

They sipped tea in silence for a minute or two, while Harry considered. Reading between the lines, Flitwick thought it should be taught, and the theory he’d carefully proposed about changing beliefs seemed the truest. Harry had spent years in Muggle school taking history classes. A lot of their history had involved the idea that humans were better than everything else and that God had made the world for people to conquer and rule. Harry had always thought that was a bit of a weak claim, since Muggles didn’t seem to have done a very good job of it.

He wanted to ask why it was only after the Statute of Secrecy that things started to change, but Flitwick had seemed like he was discouraging Harry from continuing this line of conversation as too political. Which seemed stupid, telling professors they couldn’t talk about anything political with students—weren’t professors there to educate? But maybe Flitwick could get in trouble. In his conversation with Vihaan earlier he’d said something about Ministry-controlled researchers being limited in what they said, and while Flitwick had also said being at Hogwarts protected him, who knew how far that protection went? Best to steer the conversation back to safer waters.

“And my mother… she would have wanted me to know this?”

“Lily thought we were due a revival of the old ways,” Flitwick said. “The first student at Hogwarts in quite some time to engage with her past quite like that. I wrote her a pass to the Restricted Section—before you ask, I may not write one for a student outside of NEWT courses without permission from the Headmaster, and he rarely approves such requests—and she found much of interest in the sections on history and magical theory. Some of her books may still be in the things she sent ahead. Actually, while I’m thinking of it, I could look briefly right now, if you don’t mind waiting?”

Harry indicated that he did not, and Flitwick hopped down, trotting over to the door that connected professors’ offices to their private quarters. Due to the unpredictable geometry of Hogwarts, their private rooms were all connected to a central corridor, but their offices were scattered all over the castle to be near their classrooms. It had taken Harry and Theo ages to figure this out the previous year.

Minutes ticked by. Harry spun his wand around his fingers and busied himself with looking around the room at the hundreds of books lining the shelves, on every subject from charms to potions to divination to obscure magical languages.

Some rustling got his attention right before a floating trunk preceded Flitwick out of his private rooms. The short Professor was barely visible until it came to a halt on the floor in front of Harry with a gentle thud. “There you are, Mr. Potter. It’s keyed to her blood, so I expect yours will disable the wards, seeing as you are her son. I don’t pretend to know what is in here, and I do apologize in advance if any of it is difficult to see.” He held out a stack of photographs tied with a blue ribbon. “I made copies of some photographs I had in one of my old albums—I thought you would like to see them.”

The photographs settled into Harry’s almost-shaking hand. Flitwick really did seem to mean the apology. Harry stared at Flitwick for probably longer than was polite but he was just struggling to process the sincerity of the man. As a rule, Harry did not trust adults, but none of his usual instincts were warning him away here. It was unsettling and he was already unsettled enough.

“Professor, I—” This is the part where I thank him, Harry suddenly realized. Except the words stuck in his throat. He could thank people with a smile if he didn’t mean it, but real gratitude was a weakness, would just be used against him—

“I understand,” Flitwick said, shaking his head. “It’s all right, Mr. Potter. I’m sure this is quite a lot, but I would be delighted if you would consider joining me for tea again when you’ve had a chance to process. It would be my honor to help Lily’s son on his way, since she is not here to do so herself.”

Harry’s throat was still not cooperating but he forced out a “Thank you for the tea, Professor,” that made Flitwick beam as though he understood the tea wasn’t all Harry meant. The little part-goblin held the door for Harry as he levitated the trunk out of his office.

Harry hurried back to the dungeons. Disgust roiled in his gut. Years of telling himself he didn’t need parents, didn’t need to worry about whether these vague silhouettes of mother and father would approve of him—all that down the drain the second he had a bare crumb of information about his mother.

Maybe it was just the curse of the orphan. Harry scowled and knew he was stomping a little, knew full well he was being a bit childish, and not able to care. He didn’t need a mother.

Theo was in the common room, and when Harry walked by, he followed him back to their dorms. “How was it?” he asked as soon as the door closed.

Harry threw his cloak at his trunk with more force than strictly necessary. His mother’s trunk settled next to his own—he couldn’t bring himself to just let it fall. “It was fine.”

“Uh huh,” Theo said dubiously. “And that’s why you look as pissy as a kneazle in the rain?”

“I don’t need a mother,” Harry said. He threw himself in the same direction as his cloak and yanked a pillow over his face. This was humiliating. Why could he not control himself today?

The bed shifted as Theo climbed on and sat next to Harry’s knees. “What did you learn?”

“She was a Charms prodigy,” Harry nearly spat. “Brilliant, pretty, loyal to her friends, she would’ve been a Slytherin if there hadn’t been so much blood prejudice, and she would’ve been a Charms Mistress if she hadn’t gotten pregnant straight out of school. She would have hated how I was raised. She would’ve wanted me to be brought up with, quote, the life she wanted to have, immersed in magic and all that it brings. I could’ve grown up a wizard like I was supposed to but she just had to go and die!”

He was breathing hard at the end of this little rant, and abruptly horrified at everything he’d said. Harry tore the pillow away from his face and sat bolt upright, wand in his hand.

“I won’t tell,” Theo said softly. He’d gone very still, and his eyes flickered between Harry’s wand and Harry’s eyes. Harry knew his face was set in the cold mask he usually wore when angry or about to hurt someone. It had been a very long time since this face was aimed at Theo. “Harry… it’s me. Theo. You know I wouldn’t tell a soul, would never use your trust against you.”

“What makes me so special?” Harry ground out, because they both knew Theo would stab just about anyone in the back if he had to.

Theo visibly struggled. “You’re… I didn’t… I never had a friend before you. Someone who’d… I don’t know, stand up for me. You’re… clever and brilliant and I don’t think you know how powerful you are and… I know you don’t care for me like a normal… friend, but you do in your way and that’s more than…”

Slowly, Harry released his wand and posture. “I get it,” he said quietly, and, figuring it was his turn to try, he rested his hand stiffly on top of Theo’s. It took a few more seconds of controlled breathing before he could add, “And I do care.”

“Well.” Theo took a deep breath. “I guess… Harry, you might not need a mother, but you can still… I don’t know, want her. Or—at least remember her. I miss my mum. I was lucky to have her, I realize that, at least for a while, but you… I mean, isn’t it better to know her a little? You don’t have to… prove you don’t need a parent. We all know you’ve done fine for yourself on your own. And it’s your heritage. It’s okay to… want to know more about her, and… wish you could’ve had parents, growing up.”

His speech was a bit halting but Harry felt as though some of the angry, anxious twisting in his chest had eased. Tension drained out of him and he let go of Theo, leaning back and resting his hands on where Raza curled on his stomach. “I hate that she died… and I had to grow up in that… that place.”

“She chose, though,” Theo pointed out. “To die, so you could live. I mean… she had to have really loved you, to do that. If she’d chosen to run and leave you then she might have gotten away, or maybe not, but then you wouldn’t be here.”

“I know. I was… I’m trying not to be angry at her.” It was hard not to be. But Theo had reminded him that Lily Evans wasn’t the one who ditched him with abusive Muggles or abandoned him at an orphanage or left him in poverty or sent him back to that cursed place.

Theo lay down next to him. “Tell me about her?”

So Harry did, relaying the stories and the descriptions from Flitwick and showing Theo the precious few photographs Flitwick had found for him, as he slowly got himself used to knowing the real Lily Evans for the first time. Her trunk lurked at the foot of his bed but Harry didn’t feel ready to open it right now. Maybe in a few days, or weeks, when he stopped feeling ashamed of wanting to know her.

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